


The Shield of Achilles

by TolkienGirl



Series: All That Glitters Gold Rush!AU: The Full Series [308]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Aredhel is solid as a rock, Dysfunctional Family, Dysfunctional Relationships, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Maedhros has lost track of how his brothers really are, Mollie - Freeform, Other, POV Multiple, Strong Language, Underage Sex, and right when he's trying to strategize!, nora - Freeform, oh and it's almost Christmas, the Feanorians remain hot messes, the truth comes out about Curufin and Nora, title from W.H. Auden
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:14:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26926435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TolkienGirl/pseuds/TolkienGirl
Summary: What their foes like to do was done; their shamewas all the worst could wish; they lost their prideAnd died as men before their bodies died.- W.H. Auden(Secrets do not keep.)
Relationships: Amras (Tolkien) & Original Female Character(s), Aredhel & Celegorm | Turcafinwë & Curufin | Curufinwë, Caranthir | Morifinwë & Celegorm | Turcafinwë, Caranthir | Morifinwë & Maedhros | Maitimo, Celegorm | Turcafinwë & Curufin | Curufinwë, Celegorm | Turcafinwë & Maedhros | Maitimo, Curufin | Curufinwë/Original Female Character, Fingon | Findekáno & Maedhros | Maitimo
Series: All That Glitters Gold Rush!AU: The Full Series [308]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1300685
Comments: 8
Kudos: 13





	The Shield of Achilles

_Curufin_

“What—were—you—thinking—” Celegorm roared, and with every word, there was a teeth-rattling shake.

Curufin might as well have been a rabbit in Huan’s jaws.

“Celegorm!” Aredhel snapped, striking out with one of her fists against Celegorm’s shoulder. “Let him go! Damn it all, let him _go_.”

Curufin gathered his limbs and his breath, his hands scrabbling against the ground. He was angry, but he wasn’t frightened.

Celegorm didn’t know how to touch anyone gently, but he didn’t mean any harm.

(Before:)

In the first month after their arrival to Mithrim, when the festivities had faded and winter was nothing but a long grey season of rain and waiting, Curufin had learned all he could about the fort. The festivities had been a bother, really; some marker of New Year’s that had nothing to do with welcoming his father or his brothers.

 _Don’t you know we’ve come to save you?_ he thought irritably, but he never dreamed of saying it aloud. Words like that were childish, when forced into the air.

The air, then, was already full of smoke. Everyone’s smiles and tears—for there _were_ tears, lost in the burning pine branches—were as perplexing as a foreign language. One that was written up and down, perhaps, rather than from left to right. One would have had to study Mithrim’s people and their celebrations quite thoroughly if one was to understand the eventual flurry of performance.

The fort was different. It was mysterious in its own way, to be sure, since it was built of stone. Because the west—the white man’s west—was still a developing prospect, most of the towns and shanties they had encountered on the journey were made of hasty clapboard.

The fort, made in two stages—first the hall and then the rooms around it, including Rumil’s study with its private heart—had been a work of strength. It had enough presence to support a future.

A mason had directed its building. Curufin poked about, impressed by the firmness of the foundation and the neat mortaring of the uneven California stones. If there were any men to be befriended in Mithrim—Rumil, though he had knowledge of mining and mapping, was too morose and scrupulous for Curufin’s taste—it would be the mason.

But the mason was dead, killed by Mairon.

 _Ach_ , said Athair, when he heard. His voice was full of rage and beauty. _Would that we’d slain him when we had the chance._ Curufin had seen the words, not left to right, nor up and down, but all around them: such was the power of Athair’s anger.

He could still call the moment back to life, if he wanted. It made it hard to remember, what other people told him about the dead.

Curufin didn’t think much of Mairon, except that the hunter-killer-carver had made his entry into Mithrim by means of false friendships in the nearby town. Mairon was a flash of ugly memory, nothing more, but the mason had been buried, faceless, because of him. Curufin thought about what listening ears could do, what clever hands could do. What a mind could do, if it stitched the parts of the body, the conquest, the war together.

He waited eagerly for Mollie’s return. She had told him she would return in two or three days. It was a week before Christmas, and Mithrim was trying to be cheerful again, hoarding sugar and molasses and whispering rumors of oranges. Curufin, however, was downright ascetic, eating very little and avoiding Nora’s company.

He disliked how much he had come to crave her touch. Nora had failed him, save as an experiment. But even there, she was outlasting her worth. He had to concoct a plan to remove her from his life, that was all. To erase all but his own necessary knowledge.

The trouble was, what she’d given him did not feel like knowledge. Instead, she was on his mind, and in his veins, at moments that should never have belonged to her. Never _more_ , most shamefully, than when he was with Celegorm or Amras, the brothers that were most innocent, and proud.

He had never put them side by side in his mind, before. Never equated Amras, one half of a baby set, with Celegorm, who was all blood and strength. Curufin ate dinner beside Celegorm, and talked to him when nobody else could hear, and just when he felt fiercely glad that Celegorm was hateful towards almost everyone else, but never towards Curufin—

Just _then_ , he would feel the memory of Nora’s tongue sliding down the hollow under his ear like the betrayal it was.

Celegorm did not say, _where is your mind gone?_ Celegorm never asked questions like that. The safety was something Curufin had not earned, and so he could not rest in it.

The double injustice was that when Curufin was with Nora—which he hadn’t been, lately—he was not _with_ her at all. He did not hold her gently, like she wanted him to. If she had said it in words he might have tried. But she asked for that sort of thing with her body, nestling against him when he was still catching his breath, and he felt a deep distaste for how easy it would be to grasp her with his hands. To accept that they were already part of her, his hands. To accept that her mouth was a part of him.

But he always lay still.

When Mollie returned, it was not so simple as Curufin wanted it to be. She brought news, but he scarcely had time to hear it—for Amras was red from crown to scrawny throat, and was trying to shake him.

“Where is she—where is she—” Amras howled, and Curufin thought about striking him. He could beat Amras in a fight. Amras and Caranthir and Maglor. And Maedhros now, because Maedhros was a cripple. That only left Celegorm, stronger than him.

“Stop it,” he snapped instead. “What are you coming to me for? I don’t—”

“She told me you were talking to her,” Amras said accusingly, his voice rather like Maglor’s when Maglor was entering a bout of hysterics. “She wouldn’t tell me why. And now she’s _gone._ ”

Curufin did not believe in luck, as it was a fool’s dream and had never served him. Yet maybe it _was_ luck, this time, that had Mollie’s diminutive figure fleeting like a deer through the trees, making for the bridge.

“She’s returned,” he said crisply, dusting off his jacket. “Really, Amras. You’re half mad.”

“Mollie!” Amras cried, tears in his voice.

Curufin was revolted by his own calculus of violence, at least where Amras was concerned. As a parting shot, he snarled, “I’ve nothing to do with her,” and left them—left Amras flinging his arms around Mollie.

Curufin hid in the forge. Nora knew better than to disturb him there.

Curufin has not visited Maedhros in days. Oh, he knew of all the developments that Maglor and more relevantly, Celegorm, deemed important. He knew that Maedhros had begun to stand upright again, had taken a few cautious steps with support. It was disgusting to contemplate this as an accomplishment. Curufin would rather speak, he was sure, to the grey corpse-spirit whom Fingon’s ministrations had seemed scarcely to touch. Praising a man for taking shaky infant steps—believing that this equaled health or hope—was an utter farce.

Curufin imagined the Maedhros of earlier days, with his proud neck and thick hair and clever hands.

 _You would have laughed at him_ , he said to this Maedhros, speaking of the one in the fort. _You would have hated him._

He was not thinking of Maedhros when he sought out Mollie that night. Not exactly.

Amras’ friend had done a good deal better than Nora. She had seen the regiments drilling. She had heard talk of “that compound.” “A regular Old-World castle,” some had said. That could only mean Mithrim, couldn’t it?

A younger Curufin—a year younger—would have had plenty of opinions on the difference between Mithrim’s construction and ancient keeps, but those were irrelevant now. He was more interested in Mollie’s inclusion of two odd, though unrelated, pieces of news.

One was that Loder the drunk had sold all his furs.

“Who,” asked Curufin impatiently, “is Loder the drunk?”

Mollie flinched. She was always flinching around him. He wasn’t going to—to do what some men would do to women like her. Not even if Nora teased him for being softer than he knew, wounding his pride. He wouldn’t prove his capacity for force to Mollie.

“Loder the drunk is the worst trapper and trader as is,” she explained. “Oh, he gets furs—but he don’t cut ‘em and treat ‘em right. He’s never sold a full haul before. Never in all my time...” Her voice veered away and returned with a change of subject. “You said you wanted to know everything.”

He rubbed the furrow between his brows with the side of his thumb. It was Athair’s gesture. Curufin had seen him make it the other day, in the mine.

“So I did,” he said. “Anything else? Any word of a date? A time?”

She shook her head. “Orcs is jealous, though,” she said. She had taken up the Mithrim name for the regiments.

Curufin asked, “Jealous?”

“Something about guns. One man said he would pay its weight in gold, damaged or not. Said his paw was a blacksmith. Said he could hammer it straight if needed. The other men laughed because he hasn’t much gold.” She paused. “An’ that was strange too.”

“That he hadn’t any gold?” Curufin was skeptical.

“That he wanted a broken gun. He had one already. A perfectly good one.”

Curufin considered this. He had Athair’s hand on the back of his neck, a familiar and tender gesture, trying to make him _see_. Of course, because Athair’s hand was also the night breeze, slipping through the stable doors, his skin felt cold.

“He didn’t want any old gun,” he said. “He wants a particular gun.”

Mollie didn’t understand. Curufin didn’t explain further. He knew enough to recognize a threat; enough to ask Celegorm’s opinion.

But Celegorm was with Maedhros.

Maedhros, when he departed on the hunt that brought no reward, the journey that had no return, had had a gun.

One of Athair’s guns.

Curufin could think of no other gun worth marveling over among a mercenary squad known to have run-ins with the Feanorians and their undeniably marvelous weapons.

It followed, also, that Maedhros’ gun might be damaged. It was easy enough to lay blame, there. If he hadn’t been an irredeemable drunkard at the age of twenty-four—if he hadn’t gone off without real assistance—

However it happened, he had certainly lost the gun. Curufin cursed himself for not thinking of it sooner, when Maedhros was brought back with not a stitch of his own clothes on him, much less a weapon. Of course they’d taken his gun.

But who had it now?

How was it so well-known to common soldiers?

He was just on the verge of entering his own room, and waiting for Celegorm there, when Nora came upon him. They were near the sickroom; she did not often come near it.

“Where have you been, sir?” she asked, plucking at his sleeve.

His body responded to her voice and touch, against his conscious will. He felt more horror now, suddenly, than he ever had for Maedhros’ pitiful indiscretions.

Suffering, however acute, only served to sharpen his tongue. He could not be silent while she watched, searching for signs of the tractable boy she seemed to see beneath fire and steel.

“With Mollie,” he said.

She did look as shocked as he had expected her to. “Why, Curufin,” she said, moving her hand up to his collar, “Are you tired of me?”

“I wanted someone younger,” he said. “Yet more experienced.”

She opened his collar with a twist of her fingers and slipped her hand inside. Since he had come in from the cold, her hand felt warm. Too warm. “What do you know of experience, Curufin? I have had to teach you every trick beyond the simple act that all men know by nature.”

“So you’re jealous,” he said, trying with all his might to disregard her fingers crawling lower on his chest.

“I’m a woman,” Nora said. “And I like you, Curufin. Let me remind you how much I like you.”

He bit the inside of his cheek.

Then footsteps stumped gracelessly along the hall, and Curufin thrust his arms out, pushing her away.

It was only Caranthir. Blockheaded both in intellect and in appearance. Curufin turned half from him, expecting to be passed by, but Caranthir stopped short. His arms were full of clean sheets. It was evening; Caranthir ordinarily did his chores in the morning. Perhaps Maedhros had pissed the bed unexpectedly, or been sick.

“What are you doing?” Caranthir asked, his whole square face made more square by squinting disapproval.

Curufin was tempted to make a rude gesture, but his hands were a little shaky. “What are _you_ doing?”

Caranthir shrugged as much of himself as could shrug around the basket. “Sheets.”

“Get on with it, then,” said Curufin.

* * *

_Caranthir_

Curufin’s business wasn’t his. It never had been. They were too close in age for Caranthir to have had any say in his babyhood. They had been in dresses together. Athair had shorn their curls the same day.

Whether this made Caranthir late, or Curufin early, didn’t matter.

Not in Athair’s eyes. Not in Celegorm’s.

Athair was dead and Curufin was a mystery. Celegorm was much the same as always, perhaps with a bit of his heart cut out.

Caranthir pushed through the door of the sickroom and broke his heart over Maedhros, as he did every day.

“Thank you, Caranthir,” Maedhros was murmuring. Fingon had washed the sick off his face. They didn’t know why he _had_ been sick; it had been, as days went, a good day.

“No trouble,” said Caranthir. But he _was_ troubled. He didn’t know what he’d seen in the hall. Nora— _seducing_ Curufin? Or Curufin threatening her? Or both?

It didn’t fit. None of it _should_ fit. He flicked a glance at Celegorm, who was sprawled on the bench, whittling. Chips of wood were on the floor beneath him.

“I’ll take those,” said Fingon, not meaning the woodchips, but the sheets in Caranthir’s arms. He didn’t say thank you, but that was Fingon. Some people were more important to him than others.

“Caranthir,” Maedhros murmured. “Help me up?”

Celegorm was already at his side. He moved fast, yes, but Caranthir had been distracted. He hurried over, feeling foolish, and tried not to tremble as Maedhros’ left arm slipped over his shoulders.

They helped Maedhros stand while Fingon remade the bed. Caranthir had not really embraced his brother until now, not upright. He had enough shame to think before he reached, and his thoughts led frequently to the conclusion that Maedhros did not want to be touched.

“There,” said Fingon, and Caranthir did his part to lower Maedhros down again.

Maedhros lifted his legs up onto the bed himself. Celegorm hovered, though, and eased his shoulders back. It was difficult to move oneself so, leaning only on one hand.

“Stop eating so much,” said Celegorm in his gruff voice, the one that was kind and fierce, rather than cold and spiteful. “You’re diminishing the supplies and tossing them all up again.”

“Pity,” said Maedhros. “I was considering a whole goose for tomorrow.”

Gwindor snorted. He was hovering himself in the corner of the room, but who had given way when Maedhros called for Caranthir.

“When you can keep a goose down,” said Celegorm, tucking a lock of Maedhros’ hair behind his ear, “I’ll kill ten for you myself, and make Fingon pluck them.”

Caranthir knew he was no longer needed. His pulse was still thumping oddly in his head. He turned to go, and Maedhros called him again.

“It’s not your usual hour,” he said, “But—”

Caranthir felt Celegorm and Fingon and Gwindor all looking at him.

“I can stay,” he said. He hoped very much that that was what Maedhros meant.

Sure as sure, Maedhros smiled. His lips still pulled over his teeth in a way they hadn’t before. That was because he couldn’t eat a whole goose, or even so much as a fragment of one. He was gaining weight slowly. Caranthir reminded himself that it had only been a month—a few days less than a month—since Fingon had brought him back. Maedhros asked,

“What did you do today? Beyond laundry?”

Celegorm had taken his bench again. Gwindor stood, or sat cross-legged in the corner, whenever Caranthir saw him. That couldn’t be comfortable for a man of his age. Caranthir believed him to be near fifty.

Fingolfin’s chair was empty. Caranthir took it, awkwardly, while the smile clung to Maedhros’ face. It only faded, and gentled, when Caranthir clasped his hands on his knees, and said,

“I went in the garden.”

“Mm,” said Maedhros, nodding gravely. “Do you find the gentler climate better? For growing things?”

“Yes. But sometimes there’s rot in the ground. More than there was…East.” He hated himself. Here was Maedhros, choosing him, and he could only think of Curufin—of Curufin and—

He needed to talk to someone who wasn’t Maedhros, about that.

“You used to garden,” Fingon said, to Maedhros.

“Perhaps I can have a trowel fitted on,” said Maedhros, without looking at Fingon. But his tone was mild, and Caranthir let out a breath. “I think Sticks might like gardening, given the chance.”

“Sticks might like skewering men in the throat,” said Celegorm, “Given the chance.”

“And many the woman can do both,” said Maedhros. “Under the proper circumstances.”

“I’ve seen Sticks, a bit,” said Caranthir. He didn’t like her, but Maedhros did. Maedhros doted on her and Frog—who was sweet-faced, if not always sweet-tempered—with all the passionate brother-love that time and death had worn thin when it came to his own kin.

 _He’s trying_ , Caranthir reminded himself.

That was more than could be said for Curufin.

“Sticks reminded me of you,” Maedhros said. “When I first met her. And Celegorm, quite honestly.”

“We’re not alike,” said Celegorm, sending a woodchip flying. It was anyone’s guess whether he meant to distinguish himself from Sticks, or Caranthir.

Maedhros winked at Caranthir. He hadn’t winked in so long—Caranthir could not remember the last time. He nearly fell off his chair.

“You are a little alike,” said Maedhros, under his breath.

Celegorm was stonily silent.

“Maitimo,” said Fingon, stealing the name as he always did, “Will you have a little tea, before you sleep?”

Maedhros nodded. When Fingon stepped away, he said, “What is it? Is something wrong?”

So he could tell. It was all pity—his precious pity, spilled like stars to light the lonely dark of Caranthir’s existence. Even before Maedhros was _this_ , even before Maedhros was gone, Caranthir had felt that his pity was something that it was shameful to want, but wonderful to have.

“No,” he said. “There’s nothing wrong.”

That wasn’t what he said to Celegorm, later, in the hall.

“I need to talk to you.”

“What are you puffing on about?” said Celegorm. He was spinning his knife in his fingers as he walked. Dangerous and foolish and nothing that Caranthir could criticize, for Celegorm knew his knives.

“Not here,” said Caranthir, and _that_ caught Celegorm’s ear at least.

In the yard at the back of the fort, there were no sentries near. Caranthir saw the stars hanging overhead and was hurt by them.

“It’s bloody cold,” said Celegorm. He never minded the cold; certainly not California’s mild chill. “Go on then. Spit.”

“There’s something wrong with Curufin.” That wasn’t the right way to say it, of course. Celegorm stamped like a horse.

“Oi, Carrie. As if you’ve not been saying _that_ for a dozen years. Wait, could you even talk a dozen years ago?”

Caranthir did not dignify this with a response. Instead, he tried again, “He’s—I think he’s mixing with strange company.”

“He doesn’t mix with anyone,” said Celegorm.

“I saw him…” Caranthir didn’t want to poke his nose too far. “I think I saw him flirting.”

Celegorm went oddly silent. Caranthir had been preparing himself for mocking laughter.

“Jesus, you’re such an old hen,” said Celegorm at last. “Curufin’s as innocent as Amras. And when he isn’t, he’ll be too busy for women.”

* * *

_Aredhel_

On the nights she did not dream of her mother, Aredel lay awake. She scolded herself, inviting ghosts in to bring her to tears, inviting memories of the day to trouble her. 

Her father would not have liked to know any of this. She knew he was worried about her, but that he could be persuaded to forget such worries by means of her cheerfulness, her capability. She used such means as often as she could.

And at night, she dampened the edge of her blanket with tears, waking or sleeping. It was always so horribly hard to open her eyes, feel only wool and stone beneath her head, and find that she was not in her mother’s arms.

Also, Galadriel snored.

They had had another almost-quarrel today. Christmas was drawing near, and Aredhel had hoped that Galadriel would be willing to join in some meager efforts to make things pleasant for the children. Galadriel had no great _love_ for the children, it was true, but it had seemed (to Aredhel) a worthy enough distraction from the relentless Feanorian schedule.

Indeed it had been, for a few hours. But Galadriel had a caustic tongue, and little willingness to go long without using it.

“Perhaps we should knit Maedhros a pair of gloves,” she said. “They’ll last him twice-over, now.”

“Don’t be crude,” said Aredhel.

“That wasn’t crude.”

“It wasn’t… _admirable_ ,” Aredhel said, choosing a pretentious, and thus mockable, word because she was preoccupied with trying to twist frayed yarn into something resembling a doll.

“Admirable!” Galadriel sniffed. “Well, come to that, I don’t think that thievery, or murder, or consorting with low women is particularly _admirable_ , but apparently if the fox falls into a trap with enough teeth, even the chickens will forgive him.” She smiled humorlessly at Aredhel’s silent horror. “What? He _is_ redheaded.”

They hadn’t exchanged many words, since. Sometimes it was easy to forget that Galadriel had nearly died, too, in the bitter, endless, blinding cold. Or maybe that wasn’t it at all—maybe it was too easy to remember that Galadriel had lost no one she loved best.

Not her mother. Not her brother.

Not, as Turgon had, a spouse and a child.

And so Aredhel’s tears came for tiny, rosy Idril tonight. She lifted herself from her bedroll and walked the halls, biting her knuckles and letting her shoulders heave. It was, perhaps, riskier—she might startle one of the sentries if she passed too close to an outside door—but she did not think she could bear staring at the ceiling, firelit, a moment longer.

Then, in one of the storerooms, she heard a strange sound—almost as if someone was in pain.

Her thoughts flew at once to Amras’ poor friend, Mollie, who seemed to drift at the outskirts of Mithrim and often slept in the stables. What if she was ill—what if—

Aredhel did not think twice. She flung open the door, and light from one of the hall-lamps behind her showed her enough.

Curufin—it _was_ Curufin, she knew the shape of his pointed profile even in the shadows—jerked in surprise. He had his back to the wall. The sound had, it seemed, come from him.

Aredhel shut her eyes, opened them, averted them. The light had revealed someone else; had revealed sandy hair that she knew, too. Aredhel said, very quietly,

“Nora.” She hated that that she was obliged to utter the woman’s name.

“Goodness,” said Nora, when she could, “Aredhel, I—”

“Do not speak to me,” said Aredhel. She was not herself at all; or perhaps she was, and perhaps Aredhel had become something terrifying. “Go.”

Curufin made a different sound. A word, half-formed. He must have thought better of finishing it.

Nora scrambled up and went out.

Aredhel stepped aside to let her pass. Curufin had turned his back to the door, now. A good thing. Aredhel tapped her fingers against the lintel, and said,

“I will wait for you in the yard.”

Curufin said, stuttering but angry, “I’m not…”

“If you don’t meet me in the yard, as soon as you are decent, I will go and wake the entire fort _this_ _instant_.”

She wouldn’t. He likely knew she wouldn’t. But he muttered a few oaths and then an agreement.

Aredhel did not let her breath out, fully, until she was in the yard. It was cold. It was after midnight; of course it was cold. She felt sick in the way she often did when she wanted to weep but could not. When her tears were dried up, or chased away by a new shock.

“Who’s there?” It was Phillips, walking the perimeter of the walls.

“It is Aredhel,” she said. “I came out for some air.”

But she held her breath again until he moved off, toward the hill that stretched away north.

The door opened and shut again. Curufin strode out with his shoulders drawn up high, defensive.

“Walk with me,” said Aredhel. She wished she had a shawl, but it didn’t matter, now.

“And get shot at by orcs? Or our own sentries?”

“We’ll go to the garden. That’s all.”

She led. He followed.

When they reached the neat rows that Caranthir and Estrela and Tabitha tended, Aredhel stopped short.

She said, forcefully, “What in God’s name—”

“Shut up,” Curufin hissed, and she slapped him. Then she felt really dreadful. He brought both hands up to his cheek like a little boy.

“I’m sorry,” Aredhel said, the tears threatening to return. “But Curufin— _Curufin_ —what are you doing? You—you—”

“I’m a man,” he said, but it sounded shaky. “I don’t have to explain myself to the likes of you.”

She should have saved the slap, perhaps, for this. She knotted her hands at her sides, instead. “You are _sixteen_ ,” she said.

“Seventeen next month.”

“Don’t you know that saying that makes you sound like even more of a child?”

“Oh, fuck you, Aredhel.”

“How dare you!”

“I’ve _killed_ people.”

“So have I.”

A silence. Not a truce.

Aredhel said, “Nora is almost—she is nearly forty years old, Curufin. She could be your _mother_.”

That was a mistake. The tenor of his silence was different now, and when he broke it, she heard the gunshot of shattered ice.

“She’s not my mother,” he said. “My mother left us.” He folded his arms over his chest, and added, with awful nonchalance, “Nora wanted me to fuck her, so I did.”

Aredhel bit her lips until she tasted salt. She _would not cry_. “Killing someone doesn’t make you a man,” she said. “And neither does having relations—” she would _not_ be vulgar, not now—“With a woman twice your age. I will not intrude on your grief, Curufin. Not because I do not understand it, but because I also wish to be left alone in mine. But I will not let you _ruin_ yourself…”

“I’m _not_!” His voice cracked. “I—I know more about weapons and fortification and _strategy_ than the rest of these fools put together! I have been _working_ while the rest of them are—the rest of them are tending to a goddamn _corpse_ and I—I—”

He was crying now. He turned to go—to run, maybe—but she caught him. By the shoulder, at first, and then she held him, her cheek pressed against his spine, her arms around his chest. He stood still as a trapped hare, trembling. Then the trembling grew, and grew, and became sobs, and he pitched forward like a folding knife. She let him go, and stood over him, guarding.

She heard Phillips whistling in the distance, and knew that he was making his way down towards them.

“Come now, Curufin,” she said. He had smelled like sweat and worse things, when she held him. She tried not to think of it. “We must go in.”

To her surprise, when she stooped, he let her take his hand.

Phillips passed them by. Far enough that Aredhel could nod and say, “Goodnight,” and he did not see anything amiss. He must be used to Feanorians wandering the grounds at strange hours.

At the backdoor, Aredhel said, “We are telling Celegorm tomorrow.”

He froze. Recovered, just enough to say—“No.”

“ _I_ am telling Celegorm tomorrow,” she said. “And I would like you to join me.”

She did not trust him to tell Celegorm himself, and would not pretend to.

“Aredhel…”

“I know you must hate me, now,” she said. “But I won’t let you. I shall be here at every step of the way, now. I’m too clever for you to keep on betraying me. Do you hear, Curufin? I’m too clever.”

Whatever sharp reply he might have made was lost in his snuffling.

“Go to bed,” she said. He went in ahead of her, and did not look back.

* * *

_Celegorm_

Celegorm was asleep when he felt Curufin’s knuckles at his back. It was a very old habit, for Curufin to twist his fingers in Celegorm’s shirt before he slept.

“Stop it,” Celegorm mumbled, because he had been comfortable, for once.

“No,” whispered Curufin, as hoarse as if he’d been the one woken, instead of the one creeping in.

Celegorm sighed. Squeezed his eyes shut. “All right.”

(Later:)

“Damn it all, let him go!” Aredhel said, striking him with her hard little fists. Celegorm did, because he—because the red rage was gone.

Curufin, sprawled on the ground, looked very small.

“See?” Curufin said to Aredhel. He was pink-cheeked with fury. “I told you this was a bad idea—”

“Don’t _fucking_ tell me what’s a bad idea!” Celegorm shouted, all the world going crimson again. Later, he would be grateful Aredhel had made them walk to the farthest edge of the lake. At present, he did not understand what gratitude _was_. “You were—you were—sticking it in—I—”

“E _gads_ ,” said Aredhel, which was something Maedhros used to say. Had he heard it from _Fingolfin’s_ house? Celegorm would kill them all. “Celegorm, I will kick you in the shins if you don’t lay off him. Curufin, get up. He hasn’t hurt you, has he?”

Curufin glowered at her. 

“He’s cracked my fucking ribs, is what he’s done.”

For the flash of a second, Celegorm imagined it true. Imagined his brother dead, and at his hand. He took a step back, and another. He wanted to lift Curufin up. He wanted to go back—back—before he’d heard what Aredhel had to say.

 _Nora_?

It was as if Maedhros was bleeding against him again, scored by the marks of a woman’s teeth.

It was as if he stood ankle-deep in grey water, seeing what could never be unseen—

It was as if Celegorm did not know any of his brothers at all.

* * *

_Aredhel_

The Feanorians all sounded more Irish when they were upset. _Fuck_ sounded like _fook_. It was, in its way, amusing, but Aredhel couldn’t laugh.

“You are both such absolute shit-pated bastards,” she said. Curufin had gotten to his feet. Celegorm looked dazed. Perhaps the fight was really going out of them, but she preferred to think that her curses had shut them up for a moment. She demanded, not yet finished, “What have you done without me, all this time?”

It was a cruel question. Having mercy, she saved them from answering it. “I’ll tell you what we’ll do now. We’ll keep together. We’ll sort out our family dregs like the men and women we claim to be. Celegorm will stop leading with his fists. And Curufin will keep his damned trousers buttoned and stop leading with his dick.”

“Oh, for the love of—” Celegorm practically leapt in the air. “Don’t say—”

“I had to _see_ it,” said Aredhel. “So that’s enough fainting spells from you.”

Curufin was scarlet. “Aredhel—”

“I don’t ever want to speak of this again,” Aredhel said. “But for better or worse, I’m stuck with you lot.”

“No, you’re not,” Celegorm said. There was a fine line with him between _tender_ and _sullen_. She forgave the latter, given the circumstances, and was touched by how much of the former crept through. “You needn’t be with us, Aredhel. We broke from you.”

“I know. I’m here.”

“Here and meddling,” said Curufin.

“I’d die for you,” said Aredhel.

“Jesus,” said Celegorm. Curufin said nothing.

“What?” She was embarrassed, but she still had the upper hand. “You can deride women, or fuck them, but you can’t appreciate their forthright love and affection?”

Scowls. They were angry, but not, she thought, at her.

“Let us go back,” Aredhel said. She turned and began to climb the hill, but looked over her shoulder to add, “Celegorm, promise you’ll leave Nora to me.”

* * *

_Curufin_

_He wouldn’t listen to me. He’s still angry. He said he wasn’t. But he won’t listen._

Athair shook his head. “Celegorm has always been stubborn,” he said. “He is single-minded, without considering whether his mind is worthy of it.”

Curufin didn’t quite like that. He changed the hammer in Athair’s hand, as if that could change the words.

_What do the furs mean, Athair? Does it matter, that Loder the drunk sold his furs?_

“Celegorm did not give you an answer?”

 _That’s what I’m_ —one had to be cautious, even with Athair-in-the-mine. _I mean, I tried to ask him, Athair. I tried to tell him it was important. But he just thinks I’m a boy and a fool. Celegorm!_

“My poor boy,” said Athair. His hand reached for Curufin’s hair, to stroke the rock-dust from it. Curufin shut his eyes, and strained and strained, imagining the fingers parting the dense, flat crown. “No one knows what you know.”


End file.
